One More Thing Before I Go
April 13, 2006 family
I’m trying to get Thomas to repeat, “Mommy’s pretty.” (Hey, I have a blog, and I’m self-absorbed, just like you.)
All he keeps saying is what his father says: “Mommy’s Titty.”
Chocolate Craving
Me, Unplugged
Why did I have to come across this today? PMS is taking over. I’m off to the grocery store for CHOCOLATE!
Story at 11
April 12, 2006 Me, Unplugged
The day started normally. Coffee, sippy cups, diaper changes, etc. I got a call after lunch from my girlfriend Cindy, asking me if I could do an interview for the local news channel, regarding the hydro increase here in Ontario.
I was hesitant at first, considering my hair was a freaking disaster and I hadn’t bothered to curl it. Well it’s naturally curly, but I have to do stuff to it to make it look great for t.v.
Turned out the news crew was to arrive within an hour. OH MY GOD.
Since Troll Baby had just gone down for his nap, I turned into Mama tornado, slapping on a face and brushing my hair to acceptable standards. I lit a caramel apple candle that I had bought from Mystickal Incense downstairs in case the house smelled like anything toddler-ish or Ruffy-ish.
Then I looked around the house. Yikes! The dishwasher was full of clean dishes and there were only a few in the sink from breakfast, so I threw those in the oven, (ha!) and wiped the counters.
Running like a freak through my house, I managed to gather the 8 tonnes of clutter and shove it into various cupboards, and the basement. I was sweating by the time I had finished.
Then I grabbed the duster. You know the feathery kind? Well I was working on the entertainment centre, then I noticed the windows were a little cobwebby, so I started in on those. All of a sudden the duster was on fire from me reaching behind the speakers and it had accidently caught flame. FUCK!
Thank goodness my laundry room is right off the family room. I ran the flaming duster into the laundry sink and flipped the water on. Oh the smoke! It was like lighting Froo Froo Ms. J. Alexander on fire! Just as I cleaned up the mess, the doorbell rang.
It was World Vision. I lied and said I already sponsored a kid. I’m SO going to hell. Then of course they want to know all about him. Dear God. I made up his name: Farai Nyamhunduras from Zimbabwe. I can think quick, but not quick enough, according to my flaming Miss J.
The news crew arrived 5 minutes later and guess who woke up right when they came in? Oh yeah. And he was in a NASTY mood. Clingy, crying, snotting all over the place, Troll Baby lived up to his nickname. Ya’ll woulda been proud.
The reporter, Jennifer, gets a call and takes it upstairs while Mike, the cameraman, tries to make nice with Troll Baby and engage him in toys. His nose just keeps running and every time Mike speaks to him, he cries more. Oh for God’s Sake. I clean him up as best I can and they request some natural shots of me using electricity. Well I had already queued up a couple of graphics I made, and my graphics site. Troll Baby wanted none of this as he squirmed, cried and snotted on my lap.
“Just do whatever you normally do,” Mike said.
You mean wrap my son in duct tape and hope it holds?
So I pull up the Daniel Cook website and Troll Baby is slightly amused for about 4 minutes. Mike gets several different angle shots and by this time, Dylan is due home from school, so Jennifer, and I sit on the couch, side by side, with Thomas on my lap, still whiney and nose dripping. I make the executive decision that my child cannot be seen on t.v. with a snotty nose and I clean it up WITH MY HAND, wiping it on the back of his shirt. Good God. This is nightmarish. I repeated this horrid action at least 8 times during the interview, but of course, not on camera. I need a shower by this time.
Dylan arrives home, shouting from upstairs, “Why is A-Channel here?”
Jennifer invites him to join the shot, sitting between us. Troll Baby is STILL being Troll Baby. It’s been 30 minutes since he woke up, he should be snapping out of it. NOT TODAY ZURG.
We took about 10 takes of the same questions - Troll Baby kept crying and crying and crying. Finally we get enough footage they can use and they need to have Jennifer stand by a lightswitch to do her intro and exit of the story. She stands at the bottom of the stairs in the family room and says, “How about here?”
“You can’t do it there! That hallway isn’t painted yet!”
I am
SO.
FREAKING.
NEUROTIC.
I tell her she can use the kitchen. “It’s clean up there, I threw the dirty dishes in the oven.” (I’ve wiped snot with my bare hands, we are like, so tight now.)
Well just before I think I’m off the hook, Jennifer says, “Did we get that one line about changes your family will have to make?”
I didn’t know, so we needed to shoot one last line before they go. Okay, Troll Baby is BAWLING in my arms at this point and these people probably think I’m insane. I KNOW I have snot on my black sweater. From the neck up Mike, from the neck up. Please.
I ask Troll Baby if he wants a popsicle, and Dylan chimes up, “I want one! I want one too!”
So thank the popsicle gods there are TWO left. I put Troll Baby in the high chair and he is having no part of this either. Finally, the last resort card is played, and I tell Dylan to follow me. I put Troll Baby in his crib with a popsicle and tell Dylan to stay with him and amuse His Majesty.
Coming down the stairs, I say, “Mother of the year!”
Jennifer laughs (probably thinking how great this interview will be for birth control) and we get the last shot.
“If you get time, Google Troll Baby and you’ll see why I’m this insane,” I said.
They laughed and RAN out the door.
I don’t really blame them.
But I looked really good on t.v.!!!!!
My Mother-In-Law Is Good For My Glands
April 11, 2006 Me, Unplugged
My mother-in-law and I have always got along well. She is hysterically funny, without even trying to be. I asked her to drive Dylan and I to Karate tonight and left Troll Baby at home with a bottle of gin and instructions to only play his Lynard Skynard album for the first few songs before hitting the crib a reputable sitter and since Daren got home in time, he came with us too. Yay!
I don’t think I’ve told you about my mother-in-law’s love for gossip and people watching before. In fact, I’ve avoided blogging about her, because I just don’t know if it’s okay with her. Well tonight has to be the exception because she cracked me up and it was so difficult not to blog this shit. So if she’s mad about being blogged about, there’s always the delete button. Mom, you crack my shit up, so I hope you are okay with this!
We arrive at Karate and the parent section is PACKED. The first women we see is working on some craft that kinda looks like weaving human hair. It was as if she had cleaned out a few hairbrushes and she was sewing the collection of hair into a sponge thing. I turn around to see my mother-in-law’s face and she’s sneering and staring at this chick. “Some of the mom’s do crafts while they are waiting,” I offer.
“Ewwwww…” she replies. My dear mother-in-law is not crafty. She doesn’t like to cook, knit, bake, do cross-stitch, OR weave human hair. She is simply not the type. When we talk about it, she worries that she won’t be a normal grandmother to the boys because of this, but honestly, the boys could care less about that shit anyway. They know what grandma likes to do, and that is SHOP and TRAVEL. Shopping and travel can be good for boys, they’ll get stuff and go places, you know?
Anyway, we inch our way in and the only place to stand is in front of the human hair craft fairy, so we stand there. I know what mother-in-law is thinking. She is feeling the itch of hair on the back of her legs, through her dress pants and winter jacket, which, by the way, she is wearing despite it being 15 degrees Celcuis (that’s about 60 Farenheit, my American friends). See, in-laws just got back from Mexico and with all the flu going around, said winter jacket is protecting her from all things pukey. Wish I had a jacket like that, in light of recent events.
I can feel my mother-in-law’s gaze do the John Travolta arm sweep across the room, as she studies the parents and their kids. The kids are all ages and I hate to say this, but 80% of them are NERDY. I know this is what she is thinking and she keeps looking at me, talking with her eyes.
Since the previous class hadn’t let out, there are double the number of parents and I offer to wait outside with her, because I KNOW she is itching to say something. She can’t contain herself, and I’m trying my best not to lose it. Her facial expressions are fucking hilarious. She looks like she smelled father-in-law’s Dutch Oven after a night of draft beer.
We go outside and I tell her we shouldn’t stand near the door. She saunters toward the end of the building, digging for her cigarettes as a parent attempts to back his car out. He backs a little, breaks, backs out a little more, breaks, and since we’re a couple of yakky birds, I neglect to tell her she is sauntering in his path for about 30 seconds. He is frustrated and I finally clue in and tell her to bust a move. She laughs at herself and scurries over.
She can’t hold it in any longer.
“These kids are NERDS.”
We both burst out laughing.
Did I tell you her voice is audible from a mile away? Yeah. I realize there are parents coming out, so I shh her and she whispers it again. I giggle. “Well maybe they need to be here. They’re getting plowed at school.”
“I guuuueesss.”
We stood there giggling like schoolgirls, but the conclusion is that Dylan can’t ever be a nerd since he’s one of ours. Our people aren’t nerds. Well, except for me. Ha.
Once we finish our cigarettes, we go back in, and the other class lets out. In walk two really tall and lanky, awkward boys, carrying sticks with handles (hey, I don’t know what they are, we’re only in week two here).
“Oh God.” she mutters.
I try desperately not to laugh. She whispers to me, “What are they carrying?”
Daren pipes up quietly, “those are the ancient Chinese batons, called Bok Choy.”
Usually he can trick her, but mother-in-law is up on her veggie trivia and smirks at him. “Yeah right! That’s a vegetable Daren!”
I beg her to let me ask the nerd-boys, but she says, “No because then they will talk to us.”
My stomach is killing me at this point, from holding back all the laughter. People keep looking at us.
Near the end of the class, in walk a set of parents from the previous week, who are loud, obnoxious, and UBER-NERDY.* Their son is cute, but skinny as a rail. If this kid grows some muscles, and fills out, he will break hearts. We can see that right away. He has stellar eyes, and wicked hair. I was slightly jealous, though I could see human hair craft fairy eyeing him up for her next project.
The banter between these parents, the secretary and a few other parents is UNREAL. It’s borderline Grade 3. Sad that this kid who might become gorgeous will inherit his parents ridiculous sarcasm. Hey I love sarcasm, but joking about your sex life in your kid’s Karate Dojo isn’t cool. Lock it up, people.
Mother-in-law is BURSTING by the time Dylan gets out of his class. It’s noisy, so she starts in on everyone with me. “Did you see that man? Look at that woman’s jaw. Did you hear what that lady said? GOD.”
I shhh her again, since her voice carries and the lady sitting behind her is staring (though she can’t see it). I have to face these nerd people next week.
She giggles all the way home in the car, careful not to actually say anything in front of Dylan, and I offer to help her find Nine West Shoes on eBay when we get home.
Her birthday is coming up, so when she spotted a Nine West purse she liked, I bought it for her. When it comes, I’m going to stuff it with Bok Choy before I wrap it. I love that she picked out her own present. I never have any good ideas anyway. I mean, how many pictures of my spawn does she need on her walls? Of course, she was thrilled. I figured it was a good price for watching her gossip glands swell all evening. What a hoot!
*This is the ONLY time it’s okay to use Uber. Uber is like, SO 1997.
Mommybloggers: The Rules of Engagment
family
1. Talk about poop, no less than once a week. Post pictures if need be. Need never be, but it’s your blog, after all.
2. Call your children code names, like Scooter and Bean. Then forget what you’ve called them and confuse your readers. It’s more fun for them that way.
3. Declare that you either drink, or don’t drink. No wavering. Drinkers: blog about your drinking stories, then never publish them out of fear of being called a bad mother for going on weekly benders. Oh wait - that is just me. Non-drinkers: you’d better have something else to offer.
4. Sport a fat ass. Blog about weight. If you can’t keep a fat ass, eat until you have cankles. Trust me, people around here LOVE cankles. It’s ridiculous. 5 hits a day lately. Crazy fuckers.
5. Gush about your husband at least once a month. He reads your blog. He just doesn’t tell you. Have a vase ready for the day after you think he might have read your blog, cuz you are gettin’ foliage baby! Or laid. Whatever.
6. Take pictures at weird angles or up really close - like nose hairs are showing close - and call yourself a photographer. All the cool kids are doing it.
7. Risky mommybloggers are blogging about sex. Though this would be an interesting topic of choice for me, I can’t. My family and my husband’s family read this crap and they really don’t need to know. I applaud the mommysexbloggers. Hey, we’re Moms, we’re not dead.
8. Make lame excuses for why you won’t blog about certain subjects.
9. Skip enriching activities with your children to blog, blog surf, and increase traffic to your blog by commenting on every blog you encounter. Your kids can learn everything they need to know from television. Just ask Elmo.
10. Be yourself. You aren’t perfect, and neither is anyone else. Least of all your fellow mommybloggers. They all sit at their screens in their jammies, cross-legged, reading your life, with peanut butter on their left tit and Baby Num-Num Cookie stuck to their shoulder.* They all eat too much chocolate, yell at their kids, and find solace and intelligent discussion online.
P.S. There are no rules, except for #10.
This post was inspired by Madbull, and is brought to you by the letters Gin and Tonic.
**That is how I’m dressed. If ya’ll aren’t dressed like this, then don’t tell me. I wouldn’t be able to take it.
On a side note - I ordered a cool Responsibility Chart thing - it’s made of wood and it’s magnetic. Dylan should get it soon and it looks WAY COOL. It’s under the Melissa & Doug link here. I know duct tape and a paddle would be cheaper than the $20 I sprung for this thing, but me thinks I’ll get better results from this novelty.
Breaking Cycles and Broken Records
family
My oldest, the Good Child, has been a bit of a hassle lately. He is approaching 7 and a half years old, otherwise known as the age in which questioning everything drives Mommy and Daddy nuts. I honestly don’t mind that he questions me, I want him to grow up to question everything, to make decisions based on knowledge, not what people tell him to do. As a child, I absolutely always did as I was told, out of fear. I have never raised my children with fear, and I don’t plan on starting now.
Every night lately, bedtime has been a problem. Daylight savings time sucks monkey ass, although Troll Baby has done well and slept later than usual in the last week. Yay!
Last night:
Tactic #1: Good Child insists he can’t be going to bed while it’s still light, he won’t be able to fall asleep! I reasoned with him that he who sleeps with the bathroom light on, can certainly fall asleep with the sun setting.
“Go back to bed Dylan.”
Tactic #2: Crying.
“Go back to bed Dylan. You’re going to wake your brother.”
Tactic #3: Crying, asking what the date is.
“April 10th. Go back to bed Dylan.”
“BUT I HAVE NOTHING ON MY READING LOG!”
“Well you certainly aren’t going to get caught up now. Go back to bed Dylan.”
Tactic #4: I’m hungry.
“You just finished a plate of pancakes not too long ago, so you aren’t hungry. Go back to bed Dylan.”
Tactic #5: What happens to me if you and Daddy die?
“We’ve talked about this at length. You know the answers to this. Go back to bed Dylan.”
God, I sound like a broken record. I hate that part of parenting, the nagging, the repeating of near everything. Sometimes I hate the sound of my own voice!
Crying again, “I DON’T WANNA BE AN ORPHAN!”
Goes back to bed, sobbing loudly.
Enter Troll Baby - woken up and crying.
I go upstairs to both Dylan and Thomas BAWLING. EXCELLENT.
“You’ve woken your brother up Dylan. Now Mommy is angry. What is your problem tonight?”
“My head is pounding!”
“Well Mister, if you weren’t crying for the last hour over nothing, your head wouldn’t hurt! Go to sleep already! One more peep and you’re grounded from screens tomorrow.”
(Sometimes I hate being the heavy. Really I do. I try not to yell, but when I do, all I can think of is my mother. God.)
I go into Troll Baby’s room and assure him it’s okay, and to lie down. As I’m covering him up, he says, “Dinnin, kyyyy…”
“Yes Dylan is crying hunny but he’s okay. Go to sleep baby.”
He pulls his blanket over his shoulders and closes his eyes.
I return to Dylan’s room and he has settled, though quietly sobbing. I pat his head and kiss him.
“I love you kiddo, and because I love you, it’s my job to make sure you get enough sleep. So please calm down and let yourself think about good things, like Mommy and Daddy hugs. G’night Baby. I love you.”
“Mom?”
“Yes Dylan…”
“I love you too.”
Now that I don’t mind saying (and hearing) a bazillion times. The broken record of “I love you’s” is on repeat around here. Thank goodness.
Delight
family
It’s 7 p.m.
The boys are in their jammies after fooling around at the dinner table, a mere hour before.
The key turns in the lock of the front door.
“Daddy’s Home!”
Shrieks of joy as they pad up the stairs.
Verbal diarrhea from the oldest. Stories about Ancient China on hand drawn pages with many colours.
The little one scrambles into Daddy’s arms, finding a spot in his neck to snuggle into.
Daddy barely able to put down his lunchbag and tools for the fray of little arms, legs and voices are upon him.
Smiles. Delight.
Theme courtesy of Mama Says Om.
New Mama
April 9, 2006 family
Daren has Fridays off during the spring, summer and fall and it always throws me off. He let me sleep in after working the night before and he got Dylan off to school without a hitch. Without a quarter for the bake sale too, but no matter, Dylan’s teacher rocks and she always has extra quarters for the kids who’s parents forget. She deserves a big tip for being so awesome.
So once The Man made Troll Baby, himself and I an awesome breakfast of eggs and mini honey and garlic sausages, we took off to run errands. We headed to the Sears Outlet store (a department store outlet for you American-O’s) in search of curtain rods for the new family room. I bought curtains weeks ago and they sit, awaiting roddage.
When we finally arrive, I have to use the facilities, so I tell Daren to go grunt with the other men in the electronics department and I’ll take Troll Baby with me. Toddling on at a snail’s pace, Thomas and I make our way to the bathrooms, but not without Troll Baby noticing one lonely Elmo on a display. Clearly out of place, Troll Baby takes pity on Elmo and starts yelling, “Elmo! Elmo!” Having not seen the little bugger gaffer, I say to Troll Baby, “Where do you see Elmo?” He leads me back to Elmo, who is sitting on a stack of Barbies with a stupid grin on his face.
“Elmo needs to go to the doctor,” the toy screams at 150 decibels, “Can you take Elmo’s temperature?” Thinking rectal, I grab some Elmo ass, and he bursts into song about how much fun the doctor is. Sure Elmo, you’ll never experience the joy of the pap-smear. What an asshole he is.
Troll Baby is grinning ear to ear and I know we aren’t leaving this store without Pap-Smear-Me-Elmo.
Okay fine, but I still have to pee. I tell Troll Baby to leave Elmo on the shelf, that Mommy has to pee and we will come back for Elmo. Seeing the joy on my baby’s face was enough to convince me that we would indeed be buying this $21 toy. Hoo-frikking-ray.
So on our way back to Sugar-Daddy, we have to gather up Elmo. Troll Baby won’t let me carry the box, so he struggles with it all the way back to electronics, where Daren is drooling over sale prices on everything with buttons.
“What the hell is that?” he demands.
“It’s Elmo goes to the doctor Elmo,” I say, “Just try taking him away.”
It took us 10 minutes to get to the front of the store and Troll Baby screams as the cashier removes Elmo from his death-grip to enter the numbers on the tag. Being the outlet store, they don’t scan in milliseconds here - it’s MANUAL. Imagine!
We toddle back to the car with Troll Baby clutching the Elmo box like cows would stop producing milk if he let go. Daren grabs the box to untie Elmo from the 40 billion zip straps that are handcuffing him to his box as I sweep Troll Baby into the car. Troll Baby screams though he has the ring of fire that comes with crowning during labour and continues while Daren struggles with plastic and cardboard.
I finally hand Elmo over to his new Mama and Troll Baby hugs him for the 30 minute ride home. I turn around during the ride as Daren asks me, “What did we just teach our son?”
Troll Baby beams from his carseat, hugging him harder.
Once we get home, I feed Troll Baby his lunch. Elmo sits on the dinner table, big white googly eyes staring at the ceiling. I go to put Troll Baby down for his nap and realize that if Elmo goes to bed with him, he could roll on him before naptime is over and Elmo would wake him up. We make Elmo a makeshift bed, all tucked in on the change table and as I close the door to leave, I hear, “Love You Elmo.”
Stupid Little Bitch.
April 6, 2006 Me, Unplugged
Three words that still have an effect on me, though not as much as they once did. My mother used to call me that. Stupid Little Bitch. With such hate in her eyes, I thought she wanted me dead. I’m sure at times, she did. My mother cannot be summed up in one blog entry. Often I’ve been told I should write a book. Well that hasn’t happened yet, probably because I’m not ready to face the demon herself — again.
I’ve been asked to review this book. I know it’s going to cause me to reflect on myself, my childhood, and it will likely bring back memories I’m not sure I’m ready for. The biggest obstacle I face is that my own mother was the child in a similar story and I was the parent. Holding her hair back while she purged a drinking binge, making my younger brother’s breakfast and lunch when I was only a baby myself, I often wished I had a normal child’s life. I know there are adults that have been through worse. I know there are children who live through worse now.
Truth is, I wouldn’t change it if I could. I am a wonderful mother. My kids reflect my heart on a daily basis and my life is amazing and happy now. People who don’t know me, often assume I had a well-adjusted upbringing and when I was sent to a psychiatrist for panic attacks about 10 years ago, the doctor listened to me recant my story and told me I’ve obviously dealt with what has unfolded in my life, and made the best life anyone could — anyone from any upbringing.
I look at mother/daughter relationships differently than most people though. While pregnant with both of the boys, I wished as hard I could for sons. I was terrified of having a daughter and repeating history. I confided in friends and family about this and each and every confidante assured me that I would be a great mother to a daughter. That I wouldn’t repeat my mother’s mistakes. I guess I’ll never know.
For my entire life, up until I was 7 weeks pregnant with Thomas, those 3 little words rang in my head at the thought of my childhood. My mother, a drunk, screaming banshee, would utter these words, baring her teeth as she slurred. She hated me, or so I believed. Now, at 31, I know she never liked herself. She hated who she was. She had very little, if any, self-esteem and she projected her insecurities onto others. No one in our family spoke to her, she had alienated herself from everyone. She didn’t get along with other women. Every woman she encountered was a “bitch,” or a “slut.” Any girlfriends I had while growing up weren’t safe from these harsh words and as such, I avoided bringing friends home to her.
Men floated in and out of our tiny apartment and us kids were subjected to the naked creeps, as we snuck past the livingroom (my mother slept in the sofa bed) to get our cereal on Saturday mornings. My mother was beautiful on the outside, but the men never stayed longer than the time it took to piss her off. She married 3 times, and divorced just as many.
So what changed at 7 weeks pregnant with Thomas? My mother had moved to our city in the previous year, bunking with us for a month before she found her own apartment. (Don’t ask me how Daren and I didn’t boot her out within a week) Pretty soon after that, she found a boyfriend. Boyfriend was nouveau riche, and he had a young daughter. Dear daughter was sweet. A slightly overweight child, she had lost her mother to serious illness, and malpractice. So the story goes. Over the time my mother dated this fool, she abused the daughter and bragged about it to me as though she was doing this girl a favour. Mom bragged about her use of portion control, keeping the daughter in lock-down, and snippets of physical abuse came to the surface as she explaned all the things she was doing to help the girl lose weight. The young girl was not allowed in the kitchen. My mother would allot her portion onto a plate and the child was to leave the empty plate at the top of the stairs to be collected, and return to her room.
Shocked to hear the treatment of this child, and remembering the childhood I had dealt with, I could not sleep. I knew I had to do something before this girl suffered any more. I wrote a detailed letter to Children’s Aid, as did friends of the family, and this young life was spared any more wrongdoing at the hands of my mother, the monster. She was removed from the home, and my mother and her idiot boyfriend were soon hiring lawyers and going to court to win the daughter back. My mother wanted nothing to do with the little girl, and probably hated her as she did me, and herself, but they fought anyway because there was malpractice money to be had. Daddy had burned through his money, spending it on Hungry Man dinners and bike parts I’m sure, and the little girl won’t ever have to work a day in her life. This might be a good thing, since she will need the time to go through therapy. Further details of her case came out once the house was sold and evidence of other abuse came to light. I do hope, that now two years later, she has made progress and is happy. Her case worker promises to divulge my information should her young client ask for it, and if it is the right time. I hope she knows she isn’t alone.
I don’t feel the least bit guilty over reporting her. My mother has never given me anything but life, and grief. She will never again sting me with her toxic words. Not only that, no child should suffer the way this poor child was. I had to say something.
So for me to be reviewing this book, says alot. I guess I’m going to have to once again, put on a brave face, to swallow what’s been dealt. My first response to the request was no. I had written the email to decline, and saved it. I had serious doubts I would be able to do this. It bothered me that my own mother would have written me off, had I succumb to drug abuse. There never was a mother’s love in my life, except for the one I feel for my boys. I’m a little jealous of the daughter in this story, yet I feel drawn to it and maybe it’s time. So I’m going to do it.
Besides, I never was a stupid little bitch, and I sure as hell am not one now.
Posted by Karen Sugarpants @ 10:57 pm | 12 Comments
